


Never the Hunter

by pan_ismyhomeboy



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Bestiality kinda?, Blood and Gore, Canon-Typical Violence, Kink Meme, M/M, Surreal dreamsex, Violent Sex, season finale spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-25
Updated: 2013-06-25
Packaged: 2017-12-16 01:52:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,295
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/856422
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pan_ismyhomeboy/pseuds/pan_ismyhomeboy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>[SPOILERS FOR SEASON FINALE] An incarcerated Will has the freedom now to confront the beast that's stalked his mind for months, and the Wendigo is more than willing to claim its prey. Or, swiggity swuck Will Graham gets a fuck (in surreal dreamscapes littered with vague mythological allusions).</p>
            </blockquote>





	Never the Hunter

All things must break in time, but Will never knew the sheer, terrifying ecstasy of pure freedom the way he does now, locked in a cell with nothing but his mind and memory and rage to keep him company. Upon his shattering he could look up at the night sky and finally see stars in the blackness, burning furiously thousands of millions of miles away with a cold fire. He’ll never touch them but he can finally _see_ , see them in their flickering majesty and the cold vacuum of space is soothing behind his fevered eyes as he ghosts in and out of lucidity. Sometimes Alana Bloom kisses him with soft lips and a honeyed tongue and he wakes up sore and hard and lonelier than before. Sometimes he holds Abigail Hobbs as she is dying again on her kitchen floor, only now there is no hope for second chances or the compassionate whims of fate. Sometimes he and Georgia Madchen lie in a tangled nest beneath his bed and whisper about hidden faces and Glasgow smiles that melt away within a halo of fire.

Sometimes Will knows himself when he stares at the ceiling of his new home, stretched out over a lumpy mattress and blanket more scratchy than warm. Sometimes he doesn’t. He can tell the madness brought on by encephalitis is finally fading, only to be replaced with his own. There is nothing but time and with no bodies to examine he turns to deconstructing his own thoughts, laying them out like a skinned carcass before butchering it into individual cuts. See here the flank, the ribs, the loins, and his hands skim over his body as he considers the parts in his mind. Here is the first lie, and there the second. Here he carved compassion into Will’s skin. Here his knife sliced Will’s belly in friendship. And here, here is where he plucked out Will’s heart and kissed the bloody, beating organ before biting down in utter, abject trust.

Will is hard and frustrated when he comes back to himself. More than once he’s caught his hand snaking under his ugly orange waistband and curling around the warm bulge beneath his cotton briefs. He bites his lip to choke back not a moan, but an angry snarl. His thumb flicks roughly over the tip of his erection and he hisses through bared teeth. He wants to kill and fuck and kiss and devour whole, and left in his isolation he can only turn on himself. Time blurs -- not from the now-extinguished sweetness in his brain, but from his mind refusing to process any more and finally saying enough, you can’t, you _can’t_ \-- and he wakes up with a sticky, flaccid penis in one hand and a severe-looking ring of bite marks along the other. He licks them both clean and thinks of his dogs before succumbing again to sleep.

The days blur as he withdraws into himself, imagining the whirling constellations that must surely still dance without his witness. Long ago his father taught him to navigate by the stars and in the darkness of his Virginia woods he was able to look up decades later and still remember the stories of lost lovers and scorned gods, crossed by the fates themselves and cast into the heavens as a warning to the rest of humanity. He closes his eyes and sees his home, now devoid of its family of strays and swarming instead with FBI investigators and hungry reporters itching for the news. Yellow tape crosses his doors and windows. There is blood on the floor and on his hands and this seems right in a way he cannot explain. 

Will moves through his home like a ghost, fingers skimming the table where he keeps his lures. A splash of red on the end of a particularly nasty barb catches his attention. In his mind he touches the end of the lure and it pierces his skin, coaxing a beautifully dark, crimson drop to well up. His tongue laps at the wounded skin and comes away with a salty, coppery tang. He licks his lips and feels his erection beg again for his attention and this, too, feels right.

He leaves his the empty and cold husk of his home to retreat into the woods -- his woods. _Never the hunter and always the hunted_ , he thinks as he steps into the forest. He is naked now and without his glasses, bare feet sliding over the soft carpet of fallen leaves and dead pine needles. The air is thick and heavy with the wet, intoxicating smell of decay, blood and moist soil mingling into a heady perfume. Somewhere there is the warmth of musk and dying sunlight through the canopy. He reaches down to stroke his erection and walks deeper into the trees. 

Twilight curls across his dreamscape like a curtain of silk, cooling the flush on his cheeks and between his legs even as it beckons him further. His eyes try to adjust to the fading light; when that fails, he uses both hands to navigate through the trees, bloody palm brushing across rough bark and leaving a red path. It is his blood, though he has no wounds to show for it, and he knows in the inexplicable logic of dreams that it will be potent enough to be found. 

“Never the hunter,” he murmurs into the breeze, and a shiver draws new attention to his aching body. His lips are dry and he is so, so thirsty. For a moment he considers licking the blood from his hands but that does not feel right, for while it comes from him it does not _belong_ to him, is not _meant_ for him, not like it is for the Other. And so he presses on, leaving a gently scuffed trail on the forest floor and bloody handprints on each tree. His thirst grows, and his hunger, and the slow burn between his legs; in desperation he starts calling out into the darkened woods, voice hoarse and barely recognizable as his own. He stumbles faster through the underbrush and somehow finds sure footing over roots and fallen branches. Will runs, faster than he could in the waking world, and it is at the bottom of his next breath he realizes that he is no longer alone in these woods and that he is running for his life.

The cloying smell of wet earth and freshly spilled blood fills his nostrils and lungs, giving him another burst of speed. He snarls as the head of his throbbing cock hits his belly with each step. He wants to fuck _badly_ and he can hear the steady hoofbeats behind him, agonizing in their slow, patient gait. Will starts to grope for weapons but all sticks snap in his hands and all stones fall from clumsy fingers and so he just runs, faster and farther than his human body should be able to go. The stars blaze down overhead, silent witnesses to the chase through the ever-growing forest labyrinth, only _he_ is the only sacrifice to be made this year and he prays with every shred left of his soul that his body will be enough. Terror pumps through his veins and releases its own lewd perfume, drawing the Other near. Even if Will could escape he would not, drawn by inevitability and the darkest needs inside himself begging for satisfaction.

Even in his heightened dream state his stamina falters and he falls painfully to hands and knees in the middle of a clearing. The moon overhead is a wicked sickle, the earth below him moist and inviting, and his heart a feverish drum beneath his ribcage. He looks up through eyes marred with tears and feels an ecstatic throb of terror slice through his body.

The ravenstag steps into the clearing and shakes its shaggy mane of feathers, pawing the ground as it scents the air. Its ragged breath is loud and labored with angry exertion and triumph. Dark eyes lock on Will’s and pin him in place with more strength and precision than a butterfly collector’s delicate tools. Will snarls again and reaches to tug at his cock when the creature roars in warning, rearing back before both hooves crash threateningly against the ground. It trots forward with head held high and Will reluctantly pulls his hand away from his body and stands. Though huge, even imposing, there is something not right with the ravenstag as it looks into Will’s eyes and butts its muzzle gently against his shoulder. Will touches its feathered mane, fingers caressing up its neck to a furry ear. It twitches beneath his hand and the creature bleats softly, nudging closer, and when Will takes a step back he’s suddenly pressed against a tree trunk that certainly wasn’t there a moment ago.

“This isn’t right,” Will whispers, both hands touching -- no, _cradling_ the creature’s face, fingers curling through its soft fur. Back to its ears now, stroking up and around the bases before he reaches for its antlers. “You shouldn’t be like this. Not after everything you took from me.”

The ravenstag tilts its head and lets out a strange guttural sound that just barely resembles a purr. Will can see himself reflected in its eyes, glassy pools of black ink that warp every single photon of light that comes their way. Something passes between the two of them, a primal understanding existing in a time before words, and Will reaches for the highest tine of the creature’s antlers. The cruel point pierces his flesh and the pact is sealed in blood willingly given; Will offers both hands and moans weakly as the ravenstag laps up a lifetime of wounds from his fingers and palms. It is perverse in its kindness and when his hands are finally clean, Will wraps both arms around its neck and ruts against its body. A warm and heavy tongue laps at his face, pain searing across the base of his ear. It whispers to him in words that are not words, not by any human standards, and the body morphs beneath his touch. The creature bellows and shakes Will back against the tree before rearing back once again and striking defiantly at the sky -- only this time, it does not return all four feet to the ground.

The transformation is gruesome and horrific and absolutely, undeniably right. Will instinctively drops to his knees and offers his hands again in silence. He is crying; he is bleeding; he is screaming his throat raw, and the beast before him smiles.

It reaches forward with hands that are not hands and touches Will’s face. Even in this humanoid form it moves like a bird, examining him with alien eyes that could not be said to hold any emotion in the traditional sense of the word. Its skin is warm the way frostbite is warm at the end, calling seductively for Will to rip off his clothes and dance naked in the snow under glittering stars while the cold steals away the last of his life. But Will is already naked and might as well be bound in offering, for all he is unable to move or breathe or think with this magnificent, terrible beast before him.

“Please,” he whispers up at him through bloodied lips, and the beast tells Will Graham its name.

Will is dwarfed against and below the Wendigo’s body. Gaunt and starved as it may look, there is strength and grace as its claws wrap around Will’s arms and pins him easily against the tree. The world comes crashing back and Will gasps, erection throbbing in the night air and already leaking precome against his belly. He moans the Wendigo’s name, both its names, and the beast tosses its head in arrogant pride. One wicked claw trails down the soft underside of Will’s stomach as the Wendigo whispers of spilling organs that steam in the cold, feasting upon the life of the belly and feeding Will his own entrails through crushing kisses. The promise hangs between them sharp and real and Will fumbles to deny the pleasure that courses under his skin but he can’t. Not with those inhuman eyes on him, not with the whispered secrets at his ear and the promise of desires that finally, at long last, can be fulfilled. 

Will has been hunted for so very long it is a sweet mercy to find surrender in the Wendigo’s embrace. In the impossibility of dreams his body is reformed with every cruel slice of claws against his skin as the Wendigo marks him, baptizes him in blood, crashes their lips together in a bruising mockery of a kiss. Will memorizes the lines of its body with his hands, touching the jutting cheekbones and and ribcages with reverence. They share breath for long minutes, Will’s body thrashing in growing agitation while the Wendigo stills in silent mockery. He wants to be fucked, _needs_ to be mounted and consumed like nothing more than prey and he tries to tell the beast this only to be regarded with alien amusement. _Don’t you think I know, small one?_

In the harsh light of day, Will’s pelvis would be crushed with the sheer force of those feral hips slamming against his. He shouts in pain as bare skin tears against the rough bark of the tree, shouts louder as serrated teeth find the hollow of his throat and bring blood to the surface. The beast drinks greedily as Will’s head drops back to offer more of himself. A tongue, far more prehensile than any human’s, curls across his neck and the dripping wounds knit themselves back together. The message is profoundly simple: _I hurt you. I heal you. Your very self is mine._

Will’s consent comes in a strangled moan as he arches up, bare feet scrabbling for purchase on the smooth, dark skin. Both arms lock around its thick neck as he is lifted higher, legs splayed wide in submission. The Wendigo considers him for long moments, head tilting one way and then the other as the ravenstag’s had, waiting for Will’s part of the bargain. Will lets out a frustrated cry as he tries to push onto the hardness that he knows must be waiting only inches below him. This close he can smell the Wendigo’s musk, heavy and fevered and icy all at once and it makes his cock ache in agonizing limbo. Here lies its power, in the denial of earthly desires until its prey is squirming and panting and transformed with pure want until completely unrecognizable. Here is the lord of the forests, the horned god, the hunter who kills the weak and undeserving and the psychopomp who ushers them into that final darkness from which there is no rebirth. Here is the monster of the labyrinth, the font of panic and pandemonium in the haunted forests, the cannibal spirit of the frozen wastes that possesses good men and women as they dream in their hides and sleeping furs only to awaken as a hungry ghost blessed with the most sacrosanct cruelty.

“Please,” Will begs again and the Wendigo devours him whole.

Its phallus is long and thick, tipped with a red-hot coal that threatens to set Will ablaze as it slams into his body. There is no reason it should fit -- not with its girth, not without lubricant, not when Will has never had more than his own finger inside himself while masturbating alone in his own room -- but it does, even as his body splits apart and reforms under the violent ministrations. Will’s head drops forward as he cries in pain, tears dripping from his eyes and blood from his lips. A rough tongue slides over his face as the beast laps up Will’s misery and forces him to make eye contact again. For once there is nothing hidden between them, no lies, no veils, no misdirection, and as it rocks up again into Will’s weak frame he gasps out, _“I see you.”_  

His voice blurs with that of the beast’s and he knows they speak in unison, move in unison, that he and it miraculously occupy this same space together. Hunter and hunted united at last in this consummation of their unholy marriage, rutting in the midst of a boneyard as blood and sweat and semen run down their bodies. Will groans as the beast’s slender hand wraps around his swollen cock, the back of its talons running across inflamed flesh. He whispers its names again, gasps them in prayer, arms and legs locked around the beast’s torso as it fucks him into oblivion. Somehow, impossibly, the phallus swells within his body and claims more of him, pleasure cascading through every inch of his skin until it thrums with life. His breath comes harsh and fast as his eyes roll back into his head, stars crashing across his vision. It is a beautiful and sickening pleasure, melded with pain and rage and marrow-deep awe; it is the oldest kind of worship, the strongest kind of magic, written in claws raked over naked flesh and a bloodied offering poured onto raw earth.

The Wendigo bellows in exultance as it takes and takes from Will’s mortal body, ravenous jaws working against skin slicked with sweat. Will has nothing left to give and still it _takes_ , phallus pulsing deep within his body, bark digging into the abused skin on his back. He opens his mouth to scream and the beast steals his breath again, the blunt side of one claw sliding down the side of his cock. 

 _“Do it for me,”_ they whisper, and Will cannot tell where one begins and the other ends. He tells the Wendigo, in quick stutters and reverent moans, that it is mighty and strong and _right_ in a way that has nothing to do with something so banal as human morality. In return the beast tells him that _this_ is right, that there was never any other option for the two of them, that the thrill of the hunt must never deny the glory of the capture. And Will agrees -- he agrees with every buck of his hips, every tremble of his body, every bead of come that starts trickling down his cock. He whispers to the Wendigo, begging for relief, begging to finally be consumed so that he might belong wholly to this dark god of the forests, begging --  

Will’s yells are ripped from his throat and flung into the darkness, clashing into violent harmony with the roars of pleasure from the beast. His body is ripped apart and reformed a dozen times over, mind scrambled beyond thought as the orgasm rocks through him. It is horrifying in its power, nulling the last scrap of humanity in his identity until he merges in perfect union with the beast. _He_ is the hunter, the life-taker, the raw-eater who feasts on flesh and seduces his chosen ones, stalking them and consuming their sanity until they see. And in this brief instant suspended in eternity, Will Graham looks at himself through the eyes of a monster and _sees_.

When the pleasure finally ebbs and coherent thought returns, he finds himself cradled to a much smaller chest by arms strong and sure. Will’s body aches wonderfully, used up and filled past capacity and mourning the loss of the Other’s phallus within him. _Empty_ , he thinks as he stares at the new face above him, trying to place it in the haze of his memory. _Alone_.

“My dear Will,” Hannibal Lecter murmurs as he carries him out of the clearing, “you will never be alone again.”

They pass into the line of trees and Will fades into sleep.


End file.
